Folie à Deux
by WorseThanNicotine
Summary: "Everything we have done together, I am going to write down." With this declaration, Francis had persuaded his husband to assist him in recording their memories - be they good or bad. Rating will go up. {Human x Human AU}
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

* * *

A cup of coffee could abolish a lot of issues, in actuality. The vibrant caffeine could keep Francis awake for hours, subtract fatigue from the equation, and make nights where Arthur would stay up to catch a re-showing of _A Single Man_ – quite possibly for the fifth time since he had brought it up – all the more intimate. What it did _not_ remedy, however, was hesitation. A spiral-bound notebook from revision days long lost was subjected to the life of an ink blotter, to slow the excitement of his heavily leaking fountain pen. The elephant in the room was more than apparent – _what would fit the guidelines for an opening chapter?_

He had asked Arthur earlier, of course, to which he responded with: "Something eye-catching. An outrageous statement or two – possibly relatable. Why?" He had been abusing the kettle beforehand, and returned to stilling the occasional burst of steam. Francis bit back a light-hearted retort about how describing his eyebrows wouldn't be riveting material.

"Everything we have done together, I am going to write down." That earnt a scoff. "We are not going to get any younger – when we age… We will have these for our memories." Arthur made his way over after unplugging the accursed kettle, finding the sofa the victim of his nonchalant collapse. He always had the knack for coming out of his shell around evening; as though some unspoken element in the universe demanded he abolish the trademark suit and irritable fixture of being in favour of the current 'now' – baggy jumpers, faded jeans from an old family routine of 'don the clothes you would care to lose in favour of a child with finger paints', and a weary, resigned smile. To restrain one of his own, he took a sip of his long cold beverage. Its texture brought out a grimace that only encouraged hand to back, his lover's reassurance.

"If you dare to worry yourself over it, I shan't be too keen to forgive you." Arthur, of course, found his own comfort in a neglected cup of tea. Francis was more than certain it had been lying around long enough to grown its own organisms, though quickly abolished the thought. Arthur's stomach had the strange ability of being able to take in worse, as far as Christmas visits to his parents were concerned. The cup (reading _#1 Dad_ , which they of course exchanged depending on the time of day), was placed back onto its dirty ring-like mark upon the coffee table. "We have a good few decades before our memories should be whittled away, after all. We're constantly making more as time drags on."

At that point, Francis could have _sworn_ he saw longing in those reminiscing viridians, gazing up to first where a moth head-butted the overheard light, then toward his own, analysing every possible commination. "I'll make the first attempt. Perhaps you ought to check up on the girls." The deal was sealed with a peck to the bridge of Francis' nose.

"Wish me luck." His pad was abandoned, sadly, in favour of heaving himself up from the sofa. These were the days he missed – no reason to move aside from fulfilling the necessities, family strolls such as they had indulged in during the early hours – and time to tease fate with the proposition that they too could be domesticated: the 'Casanova', and the 'Outspoken'. Arthur would take charge of his duties for tonight whilst Francis meandered through their halls.

The walls, in fact, proclaimed the very existence of a white-washed reality. Instead of abstract pieces, paintings that assumed the hint that their creator was most likely on certain substances, they were found replaced with crudely drawn pastel formations, rubbings of coins, and family portraits. Francis himself was commonly shown holding the two children's hands, whilst Arthur was sulking to the side. It took a lot of persuasion indeed to allow them a place upon their makeshift gallery.

The artists themselves were _not_ difficult to locate. If the pink and black door – half and half, the girls' personalities clashed enough to make room for a _very_ …changeable layout – wasn't anything to go by, the hushed whispers and occasional creak of the floorboards did. Braving the storm, opening the door, he set foot upon a discarded toy or two. "Time to rest…!" His words were a hushed whisper. He recoiled, disheartened by the colossal groans that followed.

"Bleh! Why'd I wanna sleep _now?_ " The oldest by an age gap of 2 years, Janice, poked her head from under her _Fairly Odd Parents_ bedspread. She was by far the more outspoken of the two, as her hair was cut far shorter than the other girls' in her year – by request, startlingly – or, supposedly, that of any other six year old in the country, as she chose to proclaim. She boasted a _SpongeBob_ plaster upon the bridge of her nose even now, though whether there was, in fact, an injury beneath it, was still unconfirmed.

By contrast, the second face belonged in another universe, let alone beside her. Sun Li, at the tender age of four, was the exact opposite of the self-assurance and confidence beside her. Her long hair was a treacherous shade of black, almost indecipherable in the poor lighting, and almost always got in the way of her eyes, if her common choice of too-large hoodies didn't get there first. She muttered a quick: "We're sorry…" Before looking downward.

Francis crouched to join their level. "Papa isn't angry – but you _do_ have school tomorrow…" Evading the _furious_ huff sent his way by Janice, he continued, "What were you doing up so late?"

"Ah!" Finally, the eldest perked up, whilst Li buried her face amongst the remaining blanket she had tucked over her head. "We found one of dad's old ghost story books lying around! You c'n only read this stuff at _night_ , otherwise it's less scary!" After passing over the novel, a ridiculously-proportioned hardback – _definitely_ one of Arthur's – a proud grin overcame her features.

"I _told you_ we'd get caught…" Came the sad muttering from under the duvet.

"What're you even _hiding_ for? 'M not taking the blame myself, you know!" Janice took her chance whilst Francis was distracted to yank on her sister's hair.

"Ah-! Stop it!" The man in question, by this time, was almost flailing his arms. "You will summon your Father if you continue!" Truth be told, he wasn't exactly _worried,_ per se, though the idea was that he would see this through to the very end, due to Arthur's general inability to truly _get_ children.

Funnily enough, this inspired their pause.

"Good…" A sigh. "Now, I will put this back, okay? It will be our secret." Not allowing a chance for the assessment of the situation to reveal their source of fun was gone for the night, he lowered his voice to a stage-whisper. "Tomorrow night, I will read to you instead. However, it will not come if you do not try to sleep for _now…_ " The two seemed to get the hint, as Li bolted for her side of the room as quick as you like, whereas – miracle of miracles – Janice seemed to rest her weary head for the time being. She cracked open an eyelid to sport a toothy grin.

"Don't give up on the promise, alright? I'll… I'll take away all your coffee otherwise!" She proclaimed, finally turning over with an almighty flourish of the sheets.

"Goodnight!" At last, when all was quiet in the room, did Francis take his leave, virtually collapsing against the other side of the door. He couldn't help but smile to himself. In actuality, he seemed to be growing easier and easier to tire out – not even when Arthur was concerned, either. Perhaps that was what concerned him above all else.

By the time he came back into the living room, at precisely 11:30pm, he was presented with a rather rare sight indeed. Arthur was curled up on the very edge of the sofa, eyes closed and mocking serenity. His notebook, of course, was right beside him.

Only a title was present, beside its scratched-out counterparts – _First Words._

Francis finished off his coffee, stretched out his back, and retrieved the pen. From then until sunrise, the page gradually filled.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1 – Take it from the top**

* * *

There had, in a more realistic sense, never been a moment in time when it was truly the two of them against the odds, during the line-up to current happenstances. An irregular timeline would be more accurate – a sketchy attempt at following the lines due to insufficient equipment – though swiftly giving up and tarnishing the crisp pages with an almighty _scratch_ of ink. It had been very much like a textbook, in fact, Francis noted, back in those times. He stood mightily upon the faded concrete – more gum than solid – and gazed upon his terrain alone. It was the feeling that came fresh with starting anew: the profound musk in the air, the content of simply _observing_ his fellow newcomers blunder whilst he himself held the key. More specifically, a tarnished, out-of-date guide to the London Underground.

The lines by themselves made no sense, you see. They crossed irregularly – some cut off altogether and lapsed into an entirely new colour – he was less a king than he was a _prisoner_ to their startling appearance, least be said of the situation. He stood agog. A moment to regain his bearings was paramount – to dismiss the rhythmic thumping overwhelming his perception, really, should have been seen as an act of a conqueror as opposed to his current status. The walls were gloomy, the arching ceiling imposing those beneath. Various neon paper signs stood out amongst the greys and blacks of business attire: offering cameras, UK memorabilia, and various knick-knacks to supposedly abolish the true face of the scene; to enquire for assistance in a place with razorblades under the handrails – more commonly that necessary – would be a mere _mockery_ of the fruits of his journey, an arduous period of time via the Eurostar.

Ah, _there_ lay his solace. A royal blue streak, occupying the stretch desired: the Victoria Line. The rough, calloused pads of well-defined hands grasped an old suitcase, a decal of the French flag run through some kind of filter the centrepiece, and resumed his hurried trek. Three o'clock lay the main flight of stairs. The main issue was lacing his individual way across that of the masses - weaving, bumping, a ballroom made articulate, and more a puzzle than a built-in regime.

In two words, an accurate description of the Underground would be: _never again_. By the time he had escaped the maddening circuit of carriage exchanging, avoiding sweaty armpits in his face, _and_ finding it proper to exchange his seat for the handrail, he had little time at all to explore the area he was to be staying at. The destination, of course, was his new University – the campus far too plentiful to traverse, had he been provided with all the time in the world beforehand. It was a looming, gothic structure, too imposing for its own good, a vibe so studious, that _this_ was where you would remain, that it was almost stifling for him to merely sign in. _Francis Bonnefoy_ , scrawled in illegible cursive, littered the _late for lecture_ form.

The remainder of his Biology lecture itself was far worth the wait. The sterilised lab – diagrams of the dead, vials of who knows what to tenderise the flesh, make it easier for the inevitable passing-grade dissections, all overtook what quaint feeling the musty cabinets held. He took his seat beside the front, of course – he'd had the common sense to place his luggage beside the others at the doorway only _after_ seating himself. Each face radiated just what he'd expected. These were the fairly-newcomers also, decked out in safety goggles they didn't quite require just _because_ , so they could provoke the feeling they were _preparing_ for something, other than excessive usage of their Oyster cards, takeout pizza, and using saucepans as plates for the next few years. It was the elephant in the room, though for some reason, Francis joined them in their belief that it wouldn't happen to _him_ in particular.

Another flaw, he'd noticed, was the professor. It had been five – Ten? – minutes now, before the beginning of the lecture, yet a comfortable buzz of disarray swept across the room – whose inhabitants he had finally taken the time to go over. To the corner, there sat a tall, hair-gelled hulk of a man – offering what Francis sincerely _hoped_ wasn't marijuana (he wasn't too confident on the matter) to a meek lad in front, who seemed to will nothing more than to slip into the floorboards his chair teetered on. An odd component as well was the lad sitting directly across from the latter: poking him with a ballpoint pen, boasting his expertise on the subject as a whole, despite asking which side of the heart was the thickest to – presumably – gain his teacher's approval.

One thing he'd picked up on was the lack of an occupant to the seat beside his own. The lonesome, decrepit stool seemed to taunt him with its non-existent mass, bring about the thought that: Maybe they didn't have a _reason_ to sit beside him. Was there something stuck between his teeth? Was a hair out of alignment? Surely _he_ , the sole being who dared to stand out amongst their plain hoodies or attempts at ties (his own outfit was composed solely of the epitome of Parisian fashion, thank you very much) would have received at least a _glance_ by now…?

With a crash, with a bang, _and_ a wallop, the very distraction he required made his presence keynote. He was a man with completely white hair, untamed, a cringe-worthy factor by Francis' own _Code de bonne conduite_ ,but really, his mirth was inevitable in the short run. Francis was, by default, the _only_ one to crack a smile. "Alright – it is underway!" With that proclamation, it apparently paved the way for the odd addition to slam the voluminous textbooks upon his desk, take centre stage, and pace in front of the whiteboard. Somehow, Francis gathered the way the florescent, showy lighting was aimed upon the front was _not_ by coincidence. Passive whispers ran throughout the questioning youths; he was sure he caught a: _this guy's really gonna be our guy?_ from where the outspoken American was previously gushing. _This,_ he couldn't help to think, _was more like it._

"Sure, I may have been late by a _little_ bit, but who _cares_? I'll be your _professor_ for as long as it takes you to move out under the pressure – so don't feel too bad!" With a chirp, the predictable occurred: the trademark scrawling upon the blackboard – Writing that was worse than his _own_? Was it even foreseeable? – revealing the man's name to be… "Doctor Beilschmidt! You may also refer to me as _Gilly,_ or _The Supreme Overlord of Frog Dissections…_ " He put _far_ too much feeling into the latter title, "But still, call me by whatever."

The entire room remained silent. They still appeared to be assessing whether or not this was a joke, something his own hand sought to elaborate. "The others – they do not seem convinced you truly possess a degree; is this a joke…?" He received wholehearted nods, a Mexican wave of concurrence, stretching from each cranny of the room.

Neutral, to lip quivering, to dumbfounded. It was odd how such a transition was plausible, but within a few offhand ticks of the clock, they had him rushing around without fail. He cluttered around in the main drawer of his desk – of course proving difficult as it wouldn't quite open all the way – shifting aside cans of _Monster_ energy drink, various heavy metal CDs, several photographs of a small, plump bird (Francis had assumed it was an egg yolk at first glance, due to its stunningly vibrant shade of yellow), and innumerably questionable assets to the almighty mess. It must have taken a grand total of eight minutes for him to finally retrieve the item, neglecting that, by this point, most of the room's inhabitants couldn't care less.

"Check it out! I'm already one step ahead of all of you!" The paper, stained through with some substance of another, was waved ferociously in the air. Small flecks of brown liquid splattered onto the wall behind from its movement. "Of course, whether you'll get one as obviously-and-completely well-made as my own would be silly, but…"

"Sir?" The American arose from his seat without permission, emitting the horrific screech of plastic to polished floor. The 'Supreme Overlord of Frog Dissections' flinched at the sudden disregard to his questionable rule of authority.

"Yes, yes – what is it?" He swept his snowy bangs from his eyes, the sheet falling forcibly upon the stack of important-looking books, behavioural appointment slips, etcetera. His pacing was erratic, Francis had noticed, and his artist's eye amounted to forming one or two faint lines upon the table top with his knackered biro. He'd gotten to rounding off the professor's odd socks absently – one plain black, the other covered in similar-looking birds to the one in the previous photographs, a bright pink backdrop – by the time the conversation finally continued.

Francis put his pen down – the opposition cleared his throat. "I was just thinking – is that coke all over it? You know, the _drink_." This didn't go down well at all with the flamboyant locks in front, now pulled back a _second_ time, as it dawned upon him. Which is why, for the next 45 minutes, the room was enraptured by a furious bout of German and English curses, restrained tears, and instant blame upon the enquirer in question (who'd now taken a liking for his seat). On the plus side, he'd had the _perfect_ inspiration to mutate the legs two-fold, making some kind of demented – Abstract! This was his _art! –_ deformation of the professor himself. He still didn't quite get around to figuring out how he ended up with four more heads than necessary.

* * *

Contrary to common belief, England _was_ capable of sun, as Francis had learnt. He'd come out of the lab ecstatic to distinguish a scent differing from disinfectant, and meandered down the stone steps accordingly. The sun hung low in the sky – as expected of autumn - to greet him. _Perhaps_ (well, when he wasn't traversing the Underground), this country didn't leave so much to be desired as his parents had initially warned. It felt far from home, true, and though the smell of pasties and cigarettes hit the mark above the scowling visages, all with their own unspoken arguments, it could have truly been worse. The night was young, after all, and he still had much more to see of the area before heading back.

Various stalls, again selling memorabilia for the country itself (Francis _may_ have smiled, finding the residents of the place itself distinguishable by the way they would turn their noses), lined the entirety of his current standpoint. In fact, the scene was so alien, so _fresh_ in his mind, that it wasn't difficult at all to miss the odd stares, hushed whispers, and finally, a _not_ so hushed proclamation, somewhere around where a disgruntled man placed neon balloons for sale. "Francis!" And again, a second time, "This way! Francis!"

What bounded up to him were none other than the silky ringlets of Marianne, various shopping bags in tow – _obviously_ from French Connection – her stride of confidence not so profound in her new high heels. Francis rubbed his eyes comically. "After all this time? Come here! You've worried me _sick_!" He of course went in for a full embrace, causing the smaller to teeter from the stunning impact, "The last time was at your old job, no? Ah! You've grown so much taller!"

"Really – if you had missed me so much, why didn't you _call?_ " Begrudgingly, she hooked an arm around for a reassuring back-pat. Well, more laboured by the length of her arms than any general issue, really. "You know how lonely I get without you tripping all around my life."

Francis had to pull away from the thought, grinning sheepishly. "Well, moving on is a decision we had to make as adults. We could not beat around the bush forever – there is only so long we have remaining, after all… Oh: may I take a few?" He gestured to her bags, of course, which he eyed with some interest. She'd always had the problematic habit of binge-buying, as foretold by the mass of salt and peppers shakers, odd little knick-knacks. She, much like Francis, was also new to the area, though she must have opted to tend to the décor of her home first.

"Ah? No, not at all! Really, do you think I have grown so old I cannot handle the short walk? There is a coffee shop not too far from here – they must have over a hundred kinds!" She must have been in some variety of nirvana, from what he could read of her incredible daze – and by god, it was infectious. He took her remaining hand with gusto, careful not to mar the exquisitely arranged fabric of her dark, fluffy glove.

"Forwards? You will have to lead the way – I only just arrived this morning, you see…" Surprisingly, Francis' feeble words earnt him a rambunctious nod, and in little to no time, they were navigating the streets as one. He took a pause, during this time, to glance. Brown, orderly hair, lavish amounts of makeup (she had recently understood the concept of cat eyes, and had called on Francis himself for assistance after a good few hours of struggling alone), the familiar face popped up a lot around his mind. You see, he had dated Marianne somewhere around his last few years of extended education; their relationship had lasted for seven months or so, before Francis had finally built the courage to state that he'd discovered he was homosexual _._ Surprisingly, she never really seemed to hold it against him. Francis amounted it to the secretive desire that most aspired to own a 'gay best friend' for entertaining gossip, and didn't dare mention it himself.

Marianne hummed a jaunty tune as she walked, something he recognised from the French charts years ago. There was another attribute to his situation – the nationality barrier. He winced at the upcoming thought – but what if his roommate was a Francophile? That would surely be by far the worst outcome. Broken mixtures of the English and French dialogue weren't quite carnal desires of his. "So," Francis cleared his throat, "Is it always this way? I had recalled a lot worse said about the country – gloomy, no source of light…"

With that, his guidance burst into bubbly laughter. It was remarkable how he had grown to miss it, like a hidden attribute to his lifestyle had absconded for all this time. "Oh, heavens no. It has its moments, however – it's the same old _Angleterre_ , after all." Without so much as a glance forward, the door was opened before Francis, the calming abundance of chocolates, different types of coffee, and leather seats hitting him on his way forth. Really, he had to admit, perhaps English establishments weren't that terrible. If they all had so many elated faces – sipping gleefully, exchanging anecdotes to Bluetooth pieces, cell phones or companions – he wouldn't quite mind. This rabble was unlike the previous ruckus to be acknowledged in the lab.

"Magnificent…" He took hold of the table beside him, caressing the smooth wood absently. "You really _have_ outdone yourself." His words were little more than a fond murmur – the ambience, the brilliant browns and reds, the beautiful, _homely_ vibe – really, what more could he had asked for in an area? He had begun to think, at first, she was to take them elsewhere, an English attempt at a French café or the sort, to provide laughing material. But this… "I had really not expected _this_ …" Marianne quirked a smile, as though she were looking at her own child.

"You grab us the window seat – to the side, see?" She raised their interlocked hands, gesturing to the table for two, before disjoining their mutual grasp, "A black coffee for you? Just how you like it – see, I remember!" In fact, Francis hadn't even processed his nod before he had gone to comply, dragging the dropped bags over despite the previous lack of permission. She couldn't possibly lug over two cups of coffee _along_ with them, after all.

The view wasn't that bad, he had to admit. True, there weren't any vast lands beyond, canopies of trees or overviews of the countryside, though really, the sullied streets found no place amongst his equilibrium. The queue thinned down inside, as did the outside entertainment (two seagulls fighting over a chip or so). At the end of his short-lived wait, he'd attracted a thirst for his order – mostly due to others obtaining it beforehand – and an odd set of scribbles upon the oak table, the obvious culprit being the adjacent blue biro. His escort tutted lightly at the inked surface upon handing him the long-awaited beverage.

"Still drawing those silly things?" She took the seat closest to the door, nestling her cup fondly. "I remember when we were first together – how you would draw me a picture every day… Well, they _did_ begin to grow a bit confusing; abstract technique can only go so far." She took a sip, finally, seeming to light up after her spell of reminiscence. "Aren't you going to drink?"

Any more motivation would have been wasted on him – not a moment after the prompt was given, he recalled the presence of the mug – quaint, covered in various floral patterns – and raised it to his lips. The liquid was scorching, at first (not exactly an inherent _surprise_ ), though within time, it spread a calming warmth down his throat. His sigh was virtually orgasmic. "You really weren't joking… How did you find out about such a place?" The bitter texture was still on his tongue, sharp and relentless, as he went back for yet another mouthful.

Marianne herself seemed to find his reaction the funniest source of entertainment around. "Oh, you know – my new date is more low-maintenance; in fact, I'm not even sure he _notices_ I go here." Her laugh was nervous. This was another thing about her – ever since her breakup with Francis, she'd sought a new partner to 'match his level', which of course led to various affairs, or _attempts at finding another man_ , which never ended with a specific victor. Her new addition was a middle-aged slugger by the name of Duncan, whose name Francis himself had grown more than accustomed to despising. He bristled visibly.

"And he… He is treating you well?" Francis enquired, handling the poor mug as though it would dash away from him. There was an unspoken rule amongst the two of them – whenever the other looked uncomfortable, you _asked._ He wasn't terribly keen to go through the events adjacent to New Year's Day, in which her 'true love' had emptied her bank account and abandoned her, again. He was only told himself by early February.

"Well…" She gazed to the ceiling's patterns, as though reading off a script. "Really, it's nothing. He has his moments, of course – would I stick around if he were like…?" They both decided not to redeem the conversation after that point. The second rule of their 'alliance' was not to pry where they weren't allowed. Francis gave her hand a reassuring squeeze to make up for it.

"If you have any problems…" He began, swiftly cut off.

"Come to you. I'm sure I will keep you updated; perhaps next week we will reconvene?" She'd regained her smile, her essence, and that was enough to put his heart at ease. After their days together, a frown just didn't set right.

"Of course." They exchanged twin expressions of glee: two mothers discussing their children's accomplishments, undeniably foolish-looking to an elder's eye. Well, until her own caught sight the clock behind him (now reading 4:30pm), the means to hurriedly gulp down the rest of her coffee.

"I almost forgot – I have to be home by five! Sorry, he can get rather fed up when I'm not there to prepare everything for him… Next week though, yes?" She took a mental inventory, pulling her bags closer toward her, rooting through the lavish handbag to recheck her makeup was soundly present, and finally, almost tripping to ruin the image as she gathered everything into her arms.

"Are you sure you do not need any help?" Francis begun to get up himself, "I would be more than happy to walk you back; I understand you live in one of the more rowdy areas…"

"So sweet!" A parting embrace: she gathered him into her arms quickly. "Really, you mustn't worry so much! The week will arrive before you know it. Stay safe yourself!"

With her flourished departure he was left standing in the middle of the coffee shop, beckoning thin air back toward him, and the subject of a plethora of well-trained eyes. He took the hint to scoot back into his chair.

Somehow, coffee for one left an impression bad enough to scathe. The image left on the table was an immaculately sculpted bird.

* * *

After the last item was safely positioned in the far bedroom of his shared dormitory, Francis didn't truly know what to do with himself. His _Stromae_ posters hung proud, circling the perimeter of his bed, his small, aged toy bird he had christened _Pierre_ at the age of four sat upon the cabinet adjacent, and all of his textbooks were displayed accordingly, spread out proudly upon the remaining desk. His roommate, unfortunately, hadn't yet made his appearance, despite how the room next door to his own was already fit with belongings, but really, he couldn't think much of it in retrospect. He'd already had his meal – a takeout around the corner from campus, and deemed it enough for the night. He had all of tomorrow to gather fresh ingredients to make his own meals – really, he would never even _think_ of subjecting himself to a lifetime of egg rolls and noodles.

Now, at least he could entertain himself with the prospect of revising for upcoming tests, or to at _least_ familiarise himself with how the English language was deployed in his textbooks. His transfer had been on a challenge, as many students in his year – such as Marianne – had excelled in English to the degree where they may take their courses in the particular language.

In fact, he had just completed the first page's entirety: _An Introduction to The Body_ , pencil tapping at his ring binder absently, when the door finally flew open. The clock, by this time, read 1:00am. Body on autopilot, he emerged from his seat upon the bed, stretched out his back to its _clicking_ point, and discarded his current stack accordingly. Textbooks on the pile, pencil in his case, and, just about ready to exit and scold his new addition – Why weren't you here? He'd already formulated his argument – he was interrupted by yet _another_ missile to the previous serenity. Someone's gag reflex.

He'd marched from his room, to across the hall, to what he recalled to be the bathroom, the door marred with several filthy fingerprints. He ran his _own_ finger across the stains haphazardly, raised it to his nostril, and felt his throat close up within moments. _Blood._ His respect for distance was utterly demolished in the space of those few moments – the door was opened, Francis was inside, and staring, at long last, at the figure hunched over the loo, white-knuckled grasp so profound that they even matched the cracked porcelain.

Somewhere abstract, surely separated from his own flesh, his heart was hammering away in his chest. This couldn't be happening, could it? An illusion from fatigue? Bile and stomach acid were all that would surface, as far as Francis could see – though really, this was hardly an observation profitable enough to lift his worry.

"Are you alright?!" His hands were scurrying without prompt, fuelled by sheer adrenaline. His palm settled for rubbing circles into the bent back, eventually. "I want you to try and count down from ten. Can you do that?" A sorry excuse for a response he got – an acknowledging groan. Did he formulate the former himself? What precisely was the barrier between understanding and dismissal? "Come on, _speak_ …" The whine passed his lips without even processing it. His forehead was practically _dripping_ , its own sheen bringing everything to a dull blur as he fought back a lump in his throat.

When the stranger finally looked back, when he _finally_ silenced the hideous choir of grunts and retches, he was _grinning._ Grinning in the face of his aghast spectator, who was currently attempting to decipher just _how_ a pair of eyes could hold such remarkable light at a time like this, let alone see past how his straw-coloured, greasy bangs stuck over down to his cheeks. "Welcome to London."

This was exactly how Francis had come to spend the rest of the night tugging on the man's decrepit coat, preventing him from drowning in the toilet.


End file.
